Page 9 of Rook

“What do you think?” I shrug. “Another eros death, according to Marika. They just seem to be stacking up these days—horny corpses everywhere.”

“Cheery thought,” she says with a dark laugh.

“Life’s a cheery place, ain’t it?” I crack a half-smile in return, feeling the tension between us shift, adapt, become something charged yet familiar.

“Only when you’re around,” she shoots back, and there’s a challenge there, one I’m all too willing to accept.

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” I quip, as we finally pull into the parking lot of the morgue.

We’ve made it through the city’s shadows unscathed—for now.

I swing out of the car and round the hood, reaching Aisling’s door before she can handle it herself. With a deliberate ease, I pull it open, tipping an imaginary hat her way. “Miss Faye.”

She rolls her eyes but there’s a smirk playing on those pale lips, a spark of amusement in those grey eyes that don’t miss a damn thing. “You’re ridiculous,” she says, but it’s without heat, stepping onto the curb like the world’s not a mess around us.

“Ridiculously charming,” I correct, slamming the door shut behind her.

We stride into the morgue, the smell of disinfectant and death a slap to the senses. Marika’s at the front desk, the older, greying woman thumbing through paperwork that probably tells more stories of woe than anyone cares to know. She looks up, a customer service smile on her face that loosens when she spots me.

“Rook,” she says, standing so fast her chair wheels spin. “Didn’t expect you this soon.”

“Got curious,” I reply, slipping a wad of cash across the counter. “Figured it was worth a look-see tonight.”

“Always were one for the gruesome,” she teases, pocketing the cash with deft fingers. “Come on back.”

As we follow Marika, Aisling leans in, lowering her voice. “How do you two know each other?”

“Marika here had a rough patch a few years back,” I say, keeping my eyes forward as we pass sterile rooms that reek of cold finality. “Helped her find a place to clean up.”

“Really?” Surprise colors Aisling’s tone, and I catch her quick glance. “Didn’t peg you for a good Samaritan.”

“Drugs are a choice,” I shrug, watching Marika punch in a code to a secure door. “Some folks need a hand picking another option.”

“Guess everyone’s got layers,” Aisling muses, a hint of respect threading through the words.

“Like onions,” Marika throws over her shoulder, a laugh brightening her voice. “Or parfaits. Everyone loves parfaits.”

“Never took you for the dessert type, Marika,” I tease back.

The chill of the morgue seeps into my bones, but Aisling walks beside me like she’s strolling through a park on a spring day. Marika stops in front of a drawer with a label that reads “John Doe” and looks over her shoulder at us with solemn eyes.

“Ready?” she asks.

No dramatics, just the facts. That’s Marika.

“Open it,” I say.

With a hiss of metal on metal, the drawer slides out and reveals our corpse, looking like a wax figure gone wrong. Aisling doesn’t flinch; she’s seen this before, more times than anyone ever should. I lean in, eye the body—its veiny, bruised skin, and those eyes…bloodshot, staring at nothing.

“Can I get samples?” I ask, already fishing for the gloves in my jacket pocket.

“Sure thing,” Marika says, stepping aside as I snap the latex into place. “Got all the kit you need.”

“Thanks.” The gloves feel too tight, but I focus on the vials, the syringe, the task. Gotta know what this guy was on, what made him check out of the mortal coil.

I need current samples to keep up with whatever the hell they throw at us; if we want an antidote, I need to be agile.

“Where’d he come from?” I ask, needle poised above an arm that won’t feel the sting.

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